


Lullaby

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Insanity, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words inside his head turned and twisted and created ghastly images that glided across his vision, like Dementors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Reversathon](http://reversathon.livejournal.com/), as an answer to the request: Ron and Peter, slash or gen: Ron is captured and Peter is assigned to interrogate him. Mindfuck yes (for both of them), death no, please.

There was a whole new world erupting behind his eyelids. Fragments of shattered dreams whirled and danced before his eyes, and, in defiance of any common sense, the images became more pronounced when he squeezed his eyes shut even more tightly. Ron found himself giggling at the thought of developing an Inner Eye after all these years, his own laughter turning into a shrill discord in his ears. An unpleasant burbling, gurgling sound brought him back to his senses, and he opened his hurting, crusted eyes just in time to watch a blob of bloodied foam dribble from his mouth and drop to the ground.

The stones on which he was kneeling were chipped and heavy with age. He saw patterns emerge from the cracks and lines, patterns that turned into signs and symbols and almost-letters, and when he squinted, he was almost able to decipher them, and then he would be saved.

But the symbols turned and twisted under his gaze, and Ron found it increasingly hard to focus on them. Instead, he closed his hurting eyes, wishing desperate for the merciful darkness to embrace him, but it didn't come. Behind his eyelids, the white-hot sparks and flashes of pain exploded again, and the almost-words and not-quite-patterns evolved into shapes and figures, gliding towards him like Dementors, but with burning eyes and claws ready to rip and tear at his skin.

He wasn't quite aware that he had begun to rock forward and backward again, swaying on his knees, his bound wrists and his twisted shoulders hurting with his every move. He was muttering, humming a song under his breath, a song that he vaguely recalled his mother sing to him when he was a child.

 _Twinkle, twinkle, titty-twister_  
You tricked your mum  
And killed your mister  
She's got flowers in her hair  
Virgin victim  
It's not fair.

But the words turned and twisted, and even though he wracked his brain, he didn't seem to get the sense right. Maybe it had not been his mother who sang it to him? Maybe it was Bill, into whose bed he would sneak when he was having nightmares? Or maybe Scabbers, who became his pet after Percy, the traitor, had abandoned him? Yes, that sounded quite right. It was Scabbers, it must be Scabbers, Scabbers who was his pet and his friend, whom he loved despite his uselessness and his ugly, ratty face. And when he opened his eyes now, Scabbers would be there, crouched by his side and begging for a treat.

He forced his eyes to open. The whirling, nightmarish world disappeared, and there was Scabbers, sitting right in front of him and watching him from black, beady eyes. And then he was gone, in a flash of dark fur and the swish of tail. Scabbers, his Scabbers had left him again, left him for good to die alone in this dungeon.

But it wasn't Scabbers. It couldn't be. Scabbers was dead. He had died in Ron's third years, eaten by Crookshanks, and...

No. That wasn't right, either. Ron screwed up his eyes, willing his memory back... There was something about Scabbers and a Grim and a dead man coming back to life... A small man, almost a hunchback, pale and frightened, with a pointy nose and watery eyes in a strangely drawn face...

A pale, drawn face that was hovering right in front of him, seemingly translucent against the darkness. The watery eyes were opened wide, panicky and mad, and the thin mouth was trembling into a ghastly grimace, which, Ron realised, was supposed to be a smile. Sharp, pointy teeth and a tongue that flicked once, twice - and Ron recognised him.

"Scabbers," he whispered, forcing his wooden tongue around the word. "Scabbers!"

It really was Scabbers, his pet, his friend, whom he loved despite his uselessness and his ugly, ratty face... Staring at the pale, drawn face with the watery eyes, Ron replayed the words in his head like a mantra. Scabbers, it was Scabbers, it had to be Scabbers. Scabbers meant home, he meant safety and warmth and friendship, all things that seemed long lost and gone forever, like freedom, like peace, like innocence.

The thin mouth parted to reveal large yellowish teeth. The lips moved, shaping words that floated towards Ron, and he leaned in, mindless of the searing pain that shot through his shoulders and down his arms to explode in his numb hands, trying to catch their meaning. It seemed important. Scabbers' words, like the words of his mother's lullaby, were the only thing that anchored him to reality, that made him feel alive and human rather than a puppet shaken by nightmares.

"Master," the hoarse voice whispered, "my master. My boy."

 

In the seldom moments of lucidity, Ron knew that he was trapped and that his life was no more. There was no chance of escaping. He was locked up in a dungeon somewhere, held captive by Death Eaters and interrogated by a man who had willingly betrayed his best friends time and again. But sometimes, he didn't care. Despite the agony and the fear, he felt proud that he was contributing something to the fight against You-Know-Who. He wasn't a very capable wizard, he would never have stood a chance in battle, and surely being captured and tortured must mean something? Surely his sacrifice wasn't worthless? Surely he would be awarded for his dedication and his loyalty?

And then he would look up and into the white, death-like face of the woman who had survived Azkaban, and who was feeding him her thoughts, and when he choked and vomited blood it was not because of the Cruciatus, but because of self-disgust.

 

It was different when Scabbers was with him. Scabbers was his friend, his pet, whom he loved despite his uselessness and his ugly, ratty face. Scabbers brought him food and water, and sometimes he would clean the sweat and blood from his face, and other times, he would talk to him and sing songs with words that turned and twisted and haunted his dreams.

"How is master feeling?"

The voice reached his ears, but it took him a few seconds (Minutes? Hours? Maybe days? He could no longer tell. Time was dead in that dungeon, as dead as he was.) to understand the meaning of the words. He turned them over in his head, until their stopped twisting and stood still just long enough for him to see them properly. 'Feeling,' Scabbers had said. 'Feeling' meant pain and anger and fear, and he didn't like it.

"No, thank you," he whispered. "I don't need any."

For the briefest moment, Scabbers' face twitched, and something like pity appeared in those watery eyes, but it was almost instantly replaced by the usual expression of frozen panic.

"I brought food," Scabbers said. "Master needs to eat or he will-"

There was no need to pronounce the words. There was no need to listen to the words, either. Ron lunged forward, like an animal, licking and gobbling at the proffered food. It didn't taste like anything he had ever eaten. It didn't taste like anything. He could just as well lick the mud off the stone floor or the mould off the walls, and often enough he had, when they had left him alone for days on end. It was possible that his tongue had withered and died in his mouth and that it was as useless as a dry piece of wood.

Today was a day without questioning, he could tell. Scabbers began to hum a soft, soothing melody under his breath, a melody that Ron knew all too well from the long-gone days of his childhood, but whose words turned and twisted in his ear, making his mind reel with the effort of turning them back into their proper shape.

 _I'm a little spider watch me spin_  
If you'll be my dinner I'll let you come in  
Then I'll spin a web to hold you tight  
And gobble you up in one big bite!

 

Sometimes, Wormtail would ask him questions. He knew who sent him: it was the woman with the white, death-like face, the woman who had survived Azkaban and whose dedication and loyalty equalled his. They wanted to know where You-Know-Who was, and they used the Cruciatus to force him to talk. But it was pointless, because his mouth was flooded with blood and vomit and his brain was clogged with words that turned and twisted and wouldn't come out right. He knew he was screaming, and sometimes, alone in his dungeon, he heard his screams echo between the stone walls. Sometimes he thought it wasn't his own screams he heard but the screams of his friends, his brothers, his companions, but it didn't matter. They were only sounds, blind and shapeless, with no meaning to them.

 

Wormtail came to see him and to ask him how to proceed. That was a good sign. They still needed him. Without him they were lost. They would keep him alive.

Wormtail didn't bring food this time, but he brought water, and Ron's mouth seemed to unfreeze, the dry wood turning back into living flesh. He blinked up at Wormtail, at his pale, drawn face, and he saw a trusted servant, and a pet. A friend, whom he loved despite his ugly, ratty face and his uselessness.

No, that wasn't right. This was Scabbers, his Scabbers, not Wormtail, and not Peter. Never Peter.

"Where is he?" Scabbers whispered, feverishly, urgently, his thin mouth shaping words that were strong and clear and entered his ears sharp as rapiers. "You know where he is. Tell me. Tell me."

And he knew. That was the weirdest thing. The memory stood out clear and strong, and he knew, he knew... But every time he tried to force the words out of his mouth, they turned and twisted and lost their shape halfway through, and all he could do was moan helplessly.

Of all people, Wormtail must know. No. Scabbers. Scabbers must know. It wasn't possible for him to tell them about You-Know-Who's whereabouts. He wanted to, he needed to, because the knowledge of it made his brain explode with pain, but he wasn't the Secret Keeper. You-Know-Who was hidden, had been hidden by Potter... Harry... Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, the boy who had captured him and trapped him, and he had concealed the knowledge of his whereabouts in a single living soul, and it wasn't Ron's.

 

Sometimes, Scabbers didn't come to him as his friend, his pet, whom he loved despite his uselessness and his ugly, ratty face. He came to him like a devious, sneaky beast, like a rat, ready to betray him and to run to those who would offer him protection. He didn't trust him then, the hunched little man with his pale, drawn face and watery eyes. He didn't bring food or water or soothing words, only questions and pain. He knew that it was she who sent him, the woman with the white, death-like face, whose survival of Azkaban had made her strong and ruthless and insane. Wormtail would ask him questions that he couldn't answer, and he would hit him with words and curses and hands, and sometimes he would cry, and he didn't know who it was that was crying, whether it was him or Wormtail or Scabbers. Those nights were the worst, because he didn't have the comfort of somebody else's words, words that were the proper shape and came out in a proper order, but he was left alone with the words in his head, that turned and twisted and created dreams that shattered before his very eyes.

He would hum to himself, then, but the melodies faded away and all he was left with was images that filled the darkness, gliding towards him like Dementors.

 _Last night and the night before_  
Two little children came knocking on my door,  
Two little girls, pale-faced and fair,  
With dark deadened eyes and leaves in their hair.  
And then they turned round and wandered away.  
Each night they come closer, and some day they'll stay.

 

Scabbers was running out of questions, which was good, as he was running out of words. But he still came to see him, came as a friend rather than a pet, and he loved him, despite the fact that he had betrayed him time and again and that he would betray him in future, too, because such was his nature and he could not help it.

Outside, in the real world, the war was drawing to an end. He didn't know how he knew, but the knowledge was ingrained into his consciousness and it stood out as sharp and clear as the memory of You-Know-Who's whereabouts... It was silly to use 'You-Know-Who' instead of his proper name, but he couldn't help it. The name was forbidden. Ron's brain would never think the word, Ron's mouth never speak it. Whenever he tried, the word turned and twisted and all he was left with was a vague feeling of panic and loss.

The woman with the white, death-like face no longer came to see him and Wormtail became his only visitor. His watery eyes were opened wide and panicky, and his mouth was shaping words, but they were pale and feeble. The war was drawing to an end, and there was nowhere to run, and Scabbers knew that he had to choose a side for the last time. If only he recognised him as his friend, his master, the only one who could offer him the protection he so desperately needed. If only Wormtail would set him free - he would take him with him, he would not leave him here where they would find him. He would protect him, his trusted servant, his friend, whom he needed despite the fact that he had betrayed him time and again.

Ron's head sank at his chest and his body sagged helplessly between the heavy chains. The little ratty man was crouching a few feet from him, watching him, mumbling words that were too weak to reach Ron's ears. They no longer mattered. The war was over, and his side had won. Soon, he would be found and liberated and rescued from this dungeon, and the words within his head would make sense again. He would have his mind back, and his mouth, and his tongue, and his strength.

He was hoping that Harry Potter was still alive. He was hoping that Harry Potter's mind had remained unscathed so that he would remember what he had done and help him regain his freedom and his peace of mind. No-one else could, as no-one else knew. Harry Potter was the Secret Keeper, and he was the third person on this earth who knew what had happened to his nemesis' soul after the sixth Horcrux had been destroyed. Harry Potter knew that the seventh part of the soul had escaped and was recaptured and trapped and locked away in a safe place, and that it was now screaming from inside a human shell. Harry Potter knew that it was Ron who served as a dungeon for a fragment of another living being's soul, and if Ron died, that soul would die with him.


End file.
